


in the air there's a feeling

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series), Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: Brad/Claire Secret Santa 2019, F/M, Fluff, One big Hallmark AU basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: As promised, in about five seconds, Brad drops the piping bag and turns to her with his creation in hand, beaming.The gingerbread in his hands is a hideous creation that would make her pastry instructors in school cringe, gasp, and faint in horror. There are little piped pigtails framing a scarily bright icing smile.“Claire, it’s your lucky day. If you’re the Grinch, then I’m Cindy-fucking-Loo-Hoo.”He takes a giant bite of Cindy Loo’s head, crumbs falling out of his mouth and into his scruffy beard. She shakes her head at him, picks up her own Grinchy cookie, and mimics his actions, biting off the frowning face.If there’s anyone who can make her heart grow three sizes, she’s looking at him.
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 11
Kudos: 65





	in the air there's a feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenofthecon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthecon/gifts).



> I realized about a third of the way through that I completely misremembered your prompt so....this is really more just a fluffy holiday fic. Sorry!!! I hope you enjoy anyway! Happy holidays to the entirety of the Brad/Claire fandom--we are small but mighty!

The city is alive with sparkling, twinkling lights in every shop window; garland hung across every doorway; festive trees wrapped in popcorn strings and shiny baubles appear in every store, office, and apartment building. Temperatures are dropping and everyone on the streets cradle their holiday-inspired spiced drinks and tea, pull their green and red scarves and beanies over their ears and necks. 

Every decoration, every jingle bell rock, every _Happy Holidays!_ dutifully called out to her on the streets are all designed to instill a sense of Winter wonderland and seasonal cheer.

And maybe it’s because she’s exhausted in a way she hasn’t been since grad school; maybe it’s because she’s been recipe testing and developing (and doing all of the dishes accompanied with it—seriously, she _hates_ doing the dishes); or maybe it’s because she has deadlines looming and a scarily persistent editor keeps emailing her about her progress.

Whatever the reason, despite the decorations adorning the corridors and offices of One World Trade Center and the office-wide emails declaring door decorating and cubicle decorating contents, Claire Saffitz is feeling a little Grinchy this holiday season.

She stares down at the army of gingerbread men she’s currently hunched over, a pastry bag full of royal icing in hand. It had been an offhand request from Emily, a request to make her spicy molasses gingerbread cookie for tomorrow’s holiday party. No matter her own personal feelings of holiday cheer, Claire has nothing else to do this morning (her latest episode of _Gourmet Makes_ wrapped up with her instructional voiceover completed) and she’s helpless in the face of a baking request—and subsequent validation and praise accompanying the delivery of said baked goods.

It doesn’t stop her from sighing, frowning, and in a fit of petulance pipe a tiny frowning face on the innocent gingerbread in front of her. It strangely makes her feel better seeing her own feelings reflected back at her and she smiles softly to herself, pushing the cookie out of the production line and continuing on with her task of decorating perfectly cheerful and happy gingerbread men. 

“Woah, _Claire,_ got a little production line going over here? All set up in the corner alone, huh?” 

Brad slides onto the stool beside her and Claire can feel her spirits rising, can’t help it when he’s involved. She bites her lip to stop herself from grinning at him, and glances over at him. He’s right where he always is: at her side, forearms on the counter, half-out of his seat and leaning over her latest project. In a year of changes—and she’s quite content to let her mind drift over what a whirlwind this year has been—some things never change and she’s more grateful than maybe he’ll ever know the Brad is one of those constants. 

She props her chin in her hand and rolls her eyes at him. “Yeah, the point was to be _alone_.”

But Brad doesn’t seem to hear her or, if he does, ignores her. It’s hard to tell with Brad. 

“They look good, Claire. Not that I expect anything less,” he adds, looking over his shoulder at her with a wink. She can’t help it, has a Pavlovian response to any hint of praise, and preens slightly under his words. “But what’s goin’ on with this little guy, huh?”

Her eyes widen and her cheeks flush with embarrassment as Brad holds up her Grinchy gingerbread, plopping back down in his stool and swiveling towards her, readjusting his knees so they bracket her. She tries not to read into it. Brad has to take up more space than the average human and it’s not the first time he’s used his long limbs as an excuse to invade her legroom. 

(But she still licks her lips and flicks her eyes down to where their knees brush together and her grip tightens on her pastry bag.)

Claire knows it’s no use trying to explain, knows she’s in for a losing battle. Brad is a walking, talking Hallmark card for Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, everything in between. No one has more cheer in the month of December than Brad Leone. 

Instead, she sighs, and takes the cookie from him, cradling it in her hand. “You’re going to think it’s stupid,” she starts.

“You? Stupid? Claire, don’t you got one of those sweatshirts with the big ole red _H_ on it in your closet tellin’ you otherwise?”

She holds up the gingerbread, playing along. “You think I should add an _H_ to this guy? Really complete the self-portrait?”

But Brad doesn’t laugh along, even as Claire picks up her piping bag to add the decoration. He nudges her knee with his, head tilting almost to a perpendicular angle trying to catch her eye. 

“Hey. Self-portrait? That supposed to be you, Half-Sour? What’s goin’ on?”

Claire doesn’t meet his eyes, focuses on the careful pressure applied to the bag and dragging the tip across the cookie’s surface, imparting the _H_. Brad’s voice is low and soft, the way it gets when he drops the amped up version of himself that he keeps on like armor most days, always camera ready.

Beside her, now, is the real Brad Leone.

Suddenly, Claire feels _tired_ in a way she has been trying to hide for weeks. Brad’s shoulders are wide and can take a little of her burden, she decides. Meeting his eyes, she tells him everything, and, to her horror, her eyes sting with unshed tears.

“I’m just really, _really_ tired, Brad. I can’t sleep and there’s always so much to do and—and—“ Her bottom lip wobbles and she holds up the sad, frowny-faced gingerbread version of herself. “And this is about as festive as I can get.” She frowns down at the little cookie. “I’m the _Grinch.”_

_“_ Alright, hey, hey, none of that talk, okay?” He takes the cookie from her gently, puts it down on the counter, then looks around at their colleagues bustling around them, ensuring that her little corner of privacy truly was private. Claire wipes at the small tear gathering in the corner of her eye.

“Brad, I don’t know what’s _wrong_ with me. Everyone is so happy this time of year and I just can’t do it this time. I—“ Her voice cracks and she looks at him helplessly. 

“Ain’t nothin’ _wrong_ with you. Christ, Claire, you’re exhausted. Nothin’ Grinchy about that.”

She sniffs, meets his eyes. “No?”

He beams at her and shakes his head. “Hell no. And you know what?”

“What?”

Brad holds up a finger, swivels in his stool, picks up her piping bag and grabs an undecorated cookie. 

“Brad, what—“

“Bah, bah! Let the master work.”

“ _Master?_ Brad, that’s now how you—No, no, squeeze from the top of the bag and—“

He glares at her playfully. “Would you shut up for five seconds and let me work?”

She sits back in her stool, an involuntary pout on her lips, and it’s only her weight resting on her arms as she tries to lean forward to see what exactly he’s doing that stops her from crossing her arms across her chest, too.

As promised, in about five seconds, Brad drops the piping bag and turns to her with his creation in hand, beaming. 

The gingerbread in his hands is a hideous creation that would make her pastry instructors in school cringe, gasp, and faint in horror. There are little piped pigtails framing a scarily bright icing smile. 

“Claire, it’s your lucky day. If you’re the Grinch, then I’m Cindy-fucking-Loo-Hoo.”

He takes a giant bite of Cindy Loo’s head, crumbs falling out of his mouth and into his scruffy beard. She shakes her head at him, picks up her own Grinchy cookie, and mimics his actions, biting off the frowning face. 

If there’s anyone who can make her heart grow three sizes, she’s looking at him. 

____________

“Brad,” she says breathlessly through a set of nervous giggles, looking behind her at the rapidly disappearing front entrance of One World Trade Center. “Are you sure this is okay?”

Brad’s broad shoulders and long strides easily break through the crowd of bustling New Yorkers and Claire has to double her pace to keep up with him. He’s shouting over his shoulder and she should be more shocked than she is that his booming voice carries over the sounds of the city.

“I’m kitchen manager, Claire! What I say goes! And I say, we’re playin’ a little Christmas hookey.”

Catching up to him and walking beside him, Claire punches his arm. “You _were_ the kitchen manager,” she reminds him.

“Nope!,” he says cheerfully, popping the _p. “_ S’like bein’ president! Even when you’re not president, you’re president! So I still have, like, power to make decisions and shit.”

“Brad, that’s not how that works—“

“C’mon, Saffitz, keep up!”

“Where are we going?”

But he doesn’t answer her, just continues to cut a trail in the crowd for her to follow. She looks at his disappearing figure and wants to be frustrated and annoyed with his evasiveness. She’s not the type of girl to follow blindly and Brad knows it. 

Still, it’s the first time in almost a year that she’s felt a buoyant sense of energy and excitement, swelling like a nearly-bursting balloon in her chest, urging her on after him.

So she follows.

____________

It’s not until Brad is dragging her by the hand around the winding trails of Central Park, stopping at the hot chocolate stand outside the Central Park Zoo to get her a souvenir hot cocoa (“Brad, don’t,” she protests. But Brad ignores her, orders two souvenir hot cocoas with extra whipped cream and presents one to her proudly, which she accepts with a light, thankful heart), that she realizes Brad has every intention of taking her on a full tour of New York in winter. 

In Central Park Zoo, they wander from exhibit to exhibit as they sip their cocoa, stopping to watch the sea lions leap in and out of the water and the snow leopard climb the tall Christmas trees the keepers have added to their enclosures. But her favorite part isn’t watching the leopards paw at the meat ornaments on the tree (which, _ew)_ or giggling through their feeding of the young goats bleating eagerly for the handful of feed in their hands. 

It’s watching _Brad._ Brad, who runs up and down the penguins’ exhibit, keeping pace with them as they swim through the arctic waters. She sips at her cocoa and watches him grin freely, taunting the little penguins through the glass. “Oh! Oh, you wanna race, bud? Okay, ready, set—“ But the penguin takes off, ignorant of the large, overeager competitor on the other side of the enclosure. 

Brad plops down next to Claire on the bench, slightly out of breath, his exhalations condensing like dragon’s breath in the air. His arms slides behind her along the bench easily, naturally. She thinks if she shifted just to the left, she’d cradled in the warmth of his body, protected and safe from the chilly elements and wrapped up in him. 

“Lil Percy there’s a cheater,” he tells her, grinning. He focuses on the frolicking penguin, cupping his hand around his mouth and directing his playful ire, “You’re a cheater!”

Percy the Penguin chitters at him, flapping his fins, and dives happily back into the water.

Claire shakes her head at him. “How do you have so much energy? I feel more like the sloths we saw earlier on most days.”

Brad frowns at her, cocks his head to the side, considers her. Claire can’t help it, she squirms under his gaze, shifts her weight, drops her eyes from his and sneaks glances at him from the corner of her eye. It’s not often that Brad focuses his entire energy on one thing or person, even during conversation his eyes dart around the room and she can see him ready to bounce to the next topic or the next person. 

But away from the cacophony of the kitchen, just the two of them and the penguins in the dark, cool tunnel of the Central Park Zoo, Brad seems content to focus everything on her, measuring her up. Those blue eyes of his seem to settle on and see through her. 

Whatever he sees, she’s not sure. But it makes his whole face go soft and tender and he nudges her shoulder, drawing her attention. “I know you’re tired, Claire,” he says. “S’why we’re here, remember? Already goin’ senile? Matchin’ that grey hair of yours?”

Her mouth drops open and she lets the little grin that she’s always fighting around him take form. “ _Brad!”_

It’s almost criminal how blue his eyes get when he’s in a good, teasing mood. 

Brad’s eyes drop to her mouth and for a single, heart-stopping moment, she thinks he may kiss her right here next to Percy the Penguin and his friends. It’s with more shock that she realizes she _isn’t_ shocked that he would want to kiss her or, more importantly, that she desperately wants him to kiss her.

His hand reaches for her and she lets her eyes flutter close, heart beating and thudding painfully in her chest in anticipation, mouth parted and waiting and—

A rough, callused thumb brushes over her top lip and her eyes open, startled, heat flooding her cheeks. Brad’s face is near hers and between them his thumb, covered in a thin layer of white whipped cream.

Brad smiles softly at her, lifts his thumb and pops it into his mouth, sucking the cream that was previously clinging to her lip in a strange facsimile of the kiss she was expecting. Her eyes flit to his mouth and then to his eyes, confused, wondering what he would do if she leaned forward and—

“C’mon, Half-Sour,” he whispers roughly, licking his lips and pushing himself up off the bench and offering her his hand. “We’ve got so much more to do today.”

She takes his hand and feels his warmth through her glove. Neither one of them questions it when she doesn’t let go of him right away as he drags her back through the zoo and onto their next adventure of the day.

______________

The zoo is only the first stop, she soon finds out. Brad drags her halfway across the city it feels like to the giant FAO Schwarz toy store to show her the giant nutcrackers standing cheerful, stoic guard at the entrance. There are children giggling and squealing in high-pitched screams of delight at the sight of the classic, elegant toys in the storefront. 

Although she isn’t sure if motherhood is in the cards for her, the sight of such unabashed _joy_ warms and softens something inside of her. Brad, she notices once more, has the same look of awestruck delight. 

“Whattya say, Claire? Wanna get in there and snag yourself a plane, train, or automobile?”

She laughs, rolls her eyes, and pushes him along the street, her hands looking absolutely tiny against his broad back. “We’ve got enough toys at home.” Her eyes go wide as she hastily corrects herself. “I mean at the kitchen. You know, between the new dehydrator and the sous vide and—“

But Brad is just looking down at her with that same intense, twinkling gaze of his from the kitchen, the same look he gave her next to the penguins.

She pushes at him a little harder and pretends not to notice the way he’s grinning smugly at her. 

______________

After a brief stop at the corner hot dog cart (“No, no, don’t gotta apologize for bein’ hungry, Claire, jeez. ‘Sides, I know it’s like, rule number one for the care and keeping of Claire Saffitz,” he adds, teasing her. She glares and considers seriously squirting the giant bottle of ketchup in his direction.), Brad proudly stands in front of the giant Rockefeller tree and ice skating rink, arms extended in a ‘ta-da’ fashion.

Claire blinks at him, eyes darting nervously to the small crowd of skaters in the rink. They all look so confident and graceful on the ice and Claire, who struggles with dry, stable land on a good day, doesn’t have high hopes for either of them on the ice.

“You can’t be serious,” she deadpans. “Brad, we’re going to fall on our faces.”

He looks affronted and puts his hand on his chest in mock outrage. “Claire, I would _never_ let you fall.” 

On any other day, she thinks that may have come out the way he probably intended it—over the top and gallant, teasing. But today _does_ seem to be imbibed with some sort of holiday magic and instead Brad’s words feel painfully sincere and she feels her breath catch in her throat.

Brad would _never_ let her fall.

Tentatively, she steps forward, intent to put up a bit more of a fight before giving in. She pouts at him. “And it’s getting later in the day and I’m cold already. You want me to get on the ice, now? I’ll freeze!” She can hear the lilting whine in her voice and she knows she’s _this_ close to adding in a foot stomp to complete the effect. 

“You’re cold ‘cause you don’t dress for the weather,” he admonishes. “Here.”

Before she can say anything, he plucks the hat from her head—one of her favorites: dark navy with a large white pom-pom on the top. “Hey! Brad! Wha—“

But he quickly answers her unspoken question by removing his own revered, ‘for Brad’s use only’ goobalini and plopping it onto her head and putting her own beanie on his head. He tugs the elastic of the hat around her ears and she shivers as his knuckles brush against the shell of her ear. Words stick in her throat as she watches Brad focus on warming her ears with his own hat, that intense attention of his once more fixated on her, on taking care of her.

“There,” he says brightly, voice a little lower than normal, eyes traveling over her face and lingering on the sight of her wearing his hat. “Now you’re ready for whatever the rink throws at you.”

Claire bites her lip and looks up at him from beneath lowered lashes. Like this, they’re standing almost toe-to-toe and he’s _so close._ Personal boundaries never seemed to apply to them—not since day one when Brad had caged her in at the microwave to peer in to see what the hell she was doing with power levels and the butter. But tonight feels _different_ , more charged and sparking like a fire sparkler ready to catch fire and explode. 

Her hat looked a little snug on his head and she reached up and flicked the pom-pom. “This is a good look for you,” she teases, fighting to keep her breathing under control and to stop herself from doing something truly stupid like pushing up onto her toes and kissing him. 

Maybe it was her exhaustion catching up to her, maybe it really was a little winter magic, but it suddenly felt like fighting this crush of hers was one thing she could start to let go of, one thing to stop fighting against. 

Brad bobs his head side to side, forcing the pom-pom to wiggle. “Yeah? Think I could make this my new kitchen look?”

“Definitely,” she laughs, smiling up at him. He beams back at her before reaching down to take her hand and drag her, one more time, towards the ice skating rink and the giant, twinkling and glitzy hundred foot Christmas tree. 

It seems like it takes no time at all to grab tickets and get fitted for a pair of dodgy looking ice skates that have seen more feet that Claire wants to think about. Her wrinkled nose must draw Brad’s attention because he leans down, picks up Claire’s foot and settles it in his lap, working at the ties to make sure they were laced up correctly. 

“Just don’t think about it,” he advises with a wink, knowing exactly where her thoughts were drifting and patting her ankle and standing up on his own skates. Not for the first time today, he holds out his hand to her, wiggling his fingers in invitation. 

“Let’s go, Half-Sour.”

Her hand slips into his and she trips for the first of many times that night before she even gets to the ice. The toe of her skate catches on padded ground and she closes her eyes, ready for her face to meet the ground. But Brad’ hand tightens on hers and pulls her up, forcing her to stumble a little into his arms. Her palms go flat on his chest, bracing herself, as she looks up at him thankfully. 

His hand is warm and wide on her hip and lower back and she’s never felt so _small_ before. Like this, she feels tucked against him, safe and cradled from the world. Her fingers curl slightly into his thick jacket and he grins at her, those damn blue eyes of his twinkling softly at her.

“Easy,” he soothes. “We aren’t even on the ice yet.”

“Just making sure you were ready to catch me _as promised_ ,” she teases, cheeks pink from the cold and embarrassment. 

“Yeah, I always got ya, Claire,” he murmurs, fingers flexing against her hip once before stepping back, eyebrows waggling, thumb hooked over his shoulder towards the ice. 

“Now, let’s go.”

______________

To their credit, Brad and Claire make it around the rink a few times with only a few stumbles and only one truly spectacular fall by Claire. 

(She pouts up at him through her own embarrassed laughter. “Brad! You promised to catch me!” Brad skates circles around her, shaking his head. “I don’t remember those exact words.” 

He helped her up, big hands picking her up beneath the arms like she weighed nothing. Sh thinks if this were a Hallmark movie, it would be right about now that she should have taken a bigger, comical spill taking both of them down, with her landing on top of him. It crosses her mind for only two seconds to kick his feet out from beneath him to make it happen. 

“What do we do when we fall down, Claire?,” he asks cheerfully, reaching up to tug his hat down around her ears and fixing her scarf around her neck. 

“Get back up and try again,” she answers dutifully. It had been Brad’s motto to her since her first week in the test kitchen when she’d grumped and grumbled as meringue after meringue collapsed.

“Atta girl,” he says affectionately, showing off by skating backwards and dragging her along with him.)

By the time they stumble off the ice and return their skates, her feet are throbbing and her cheeks ache from laughing. It’s another stop at a street vendor selling spiked hot chocolate, the piping hot and whiskey-filled cocoa warming their hands as they collapse onto the bench.

“Oh, here,” she says, reaching for his hat atop her head, halfway to pulling it off before his hand wraps around her wrist, stopping her. 

“Leave it,” he murmurs. “Looks better on you anyway.”

She bites her lip, tugs his hat back on, and flicks her eyes up to where her hat still sits on his head. “I could say the same about you.”

The long has long since gone down and night creeps over the city, setting off the beauty of the lights of the giant Rockefeller tree and the office lights on in every office tower. Claire shivers and takes a large sip of the alcohol-infused cocoa, letting it warm her from the inside out.

And, because this apparently _is_ a Hallmark movie and this is a Hallmark ending, a soft, gentle snowfall begins, tiny, perfect snowflakes catching and sticking to the ground and their coats. 

“ _Oh,”_ she breathes softly, tilting her head back and watching the snow fall. “I used to love catching snowflakes when I was a kid. My mom used to have to drag me and my sister in so we didn’t catch hypothermia.”

Brad watches, horrorstruck, as Claire opens her mouth and sticks her tongue out, letting the snowflakes catch and dissolved on her tongue. 

“Oh, _gross,_ Claire. That shit is probably full of chemicals and pollution and whatever the hell the Hudson dragged in. I don’t know what exactly, but that ain’t pure water you’re lapping up there.”

Claire shuts her mouth and glares at him. “Brad, shut up and catch snowflakes with me.”

He shakes his head, ready to tell her where exactly in the water cycle those snowflakes went wrong when she smiles at him in that way she does sometimes, the smile that he knows means she’s about to get her away and he’s going to happily agree to whatever she asks.

“Aren’t you Mr. Universe? These are individual, unique pieces of the earth all yours for the taking. So tilt your head back and catch snowflakes with me.”

Brad sighs, dramatically opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out and catches his first snowflake. “You’re the only one I’d risk poison for, Claire, I hope you know that.”

Those declarations of his— _I won’t let you fall. You’re the only person I’d risk poison for. I’m here for you, anytime, just call.—_ are getting more and more frequent, bolder and bolder. Maybe, just maybe, this day together is breaking down the last of the certainties between them. The thought—and the gust of icy, snowflake filled wind—sends a shiver up her spine. 

“Ah, Christ, c’mere, you’re shaking like a leaf.” Brad’s arm slips around her shoulders as he pulls her towards him, mimicking their earlier position by the penguins. She sighs, sinks against him, completely right in her earlier assumptions that he would be a comfortable ball of warmth.

“So what do you think?,” he asks, lips just brushing the shell of her ear. “Feelin’ a little more in the spirit after today? Lil’ less Grinchy?”

Claire glances up at him, cocooned in his arms. In front of her is a man who dragged her out of the kitchen today because she said she wasn’t feeling the holiday spirit; a man who bought her the special souvenir hot cocoa cup for her to keep so she always remembered what it was like to race alongside penguins; a man who pulled her around the city to every over-the-top decorated storefront because he wanted to show her the beauty of twinkling lights and lush green garland; a man who gave her his beloved hat and promised to never let her fall, who pulled her along on the ice when her feet were too sore to skate on.

A man whom she loved rather desperately.

“I think you worked your Cindy Loo Hoo magic,” she whispers, fingertips sliding over his stomach and up to his chest. Beneath her palm, she feels the muscles in his abdomen jump and she hears his sharp inhale of surprise.

Brad licks his lips, takes his cue from her—he always does—and lets the back of his fingers brush over her cheek, pushes her hair behind her ear. Claire closes her eyes and lets him just _touch_ her. He’s impossibly gentle with her, touching her like she’s as fragile as one of their iced gingerbreads back in the Test Kitchen. 

“I don’t like seein’ ya down, Claire,” he tells her, the pads of fingers stroking softly at the curve of her cheek. She can’t believe they’ve ever considered stopping themselves from doing this before because it feels so _right_ having him touching her. “And if I can give you a perfect Hallmark kinda day today, I’ll give it to ya to see you happy again. S’all I want for you, Claire. I wanna see you happy.”

“Brad,” she whispers. She thinks about telling him that she hasn’t felt happy, hasn’t felt herself until today with him. She thinks about telling him that all she wants is him and his touch and his laughs and his hand in hers digging her out of her pit of despair for as long as he’ll have her. 

But this is a perfect Hallmark kind of day and that means she doesn’t need to say any of that—not now, not when the cameras are rolling, and there is still a final act to be seen.

Instead, she leans forward and presses her lips to his in the kiss that she’s been wanting all day, all month, all year. 

Brad’s lips are cold and chapped (she’ll harp on him about actually using and not eating or smelling the cherry chapstick later) beneath hers and he stills as she kisses him softly, gently, tongue just peeking out to swipe at the seam of his mouth.

He makes a small, rumbling noise in the back of his throat as he cups her cheek, tilts his head, and deepens the kiss. Claire clings to him, curls her fingers into his jacket, whimpers at the way he kisses her: slowly, languidly, as if he has all the time in the world, as if this was an inevitability of the day, the year. 

“You taste like snowflakes,” he whispers into the space between their mouths as they break the kiss, foreheads pressed together. She giggles and kisses him again, murmuring against his mouth, “You taste like hot cocoa and whiskey.”

“I, uh, made a Christmas wish back at the toy shop,” Brad tells her, looking shy. She strokes her fingers over his cheek. Now that she’s allowed to touch him, knows he wants her to touch him, she can’t seem to stop herself. 

“What did you wish for?”

She knows the answer before he says it, but it doesn’t stop her stomach from swooping and releasing a riot of butterflies into her throat. It doesn’t stop her cheeks flushing with pleasure or her mouth lifting to his as Brad hooks his finger beneath her chin and kisses her softly, reverently. 

“ _You.”_

Around them, snow continues to fall gently, the lights of the city illuminate the faces of two people finally coming together in the madness of the holiday rush, and a breeze whipping up a bit of magic wraps around them as Claire’s heart finally grows three sizes—returning to its normal, generous size—and joins together with Brad’s. 

And, because it’s that kind of story, they lived happily ever after.


End file.
